Flat-Ear
by Stormcrown201
Summary: When Leas' attempt to tell his very traditionally Dalish brother about their relationship ends in a terrible argument between the pair, Dorian is forced to deal with the emotional fallout and grapple with his own, seemingly confirmed, insecurities.


It's getting easier, he thinks. To head down from the library and across the main hall of Skyhold earlier and earlier at night, to open the door to the Inquisitor's chambers without paying much or any heed to those who might still be in the room, to climb the stairs then open the door to his room without even knocking. Not so long ago, it took him some nerve, but the tension is bleeding out of his muscles, and the actions are becoming almost automatic.

What that means… Maker only knows. Vague thoughts cross Dorian's mind—_you care about him, this is more, nobody who matters will care_—but with each comes a spike of ingrained shame, and he turns away from them. Whatever it means, he can contemplate it later. Though perhaps he shouldn't delay too long—who knows when their luck will run out and they'll get horribly splatted, or their allies will withdraw their support and Leas will be forced to end this, or…

He shakes his head. _That's enough worrying, for now,_ he tells himself. _It won't kill you to do as he does and ignore it for a while._ Though Leas seems determined to ignore it forever, but that's an argument for another day.

Dorian pushes open the door to Leas' room and heads up the steps, book in hand. A ridiculous thing, the epitome of Orlesian propaganda, that must be as wildly inaccurate about the Dalish as it is about Tevinter, the Avvar, and… well, everything that's not Orlais. Leas loves such poor excuses for literature, if only because he needs something to laugh at, and it's been a busy few days. He always acts so cheerful, but it must be a strain. _Easing_ it can't go amiss, especially when the poor man looks like he might drop dead from sleep deprivation at any moment.

"You won't _believe_ what I found in the library today," he says, without preamble and before he has even reached the top of the steps—another part of the new routine he is gradually getting used to. "Some trash written by a 'scholar' who's _clearly_ never left Val Royeaux in all his life, sponsored by the de Launcets for Maker only knows what reason. How did this _get_ to the—" He reaches the landing, rounds the corner, then stops.

_Is that… sniffling?_

Leas looks up at him from the bed. "Oh," he murmurs in a thick voice, and no cheery sparkle comes into his eyes this time, as it always does. "Dorian. I… didn't see you there. Forgot you were coming. I…" He slurs his words, and his head drops back into his chest, but not before Dorian has the time to spot the shining, wet tracks on his reddened cheeks and the snot running from his nose.

For a moment, he stops dead. He remembers well that one time he saw Leas mildly distressed, with eyes shining and all, but that was some time ago, and _this_ is different. In the silence, he hears what is unquestionably sniffling, and he can't help but stare.

"Maker's breath. Are you _crying?_"

Not the most tactful choice of words, he realises the moment they come out of his mouth, and Leas gives him an inscrutable look. His vibrant eyes are red-rimmed, and that makes the blue stand out all the more, but—no matter. Dorian collects himself and steps forward until he's standing before Leas' bed. He fumbles around in his pocket for a few seconds, then pulls out a handkerchief. "Here," he says, more gently, offering it, and Leas takes it and blows his nose. While he does so, he shuffles aside, and Dorian takes the unspoken invitation to sit down. He lays the book aside as he does.

"What happened?" he asks, once Leas has made himself slightly more presentable.

Leas' lip quivers, and it is a little while longer before he answers. "Iselen," he says, haltingly, and Dorian lets out a small groan and braces himself. "Yes, exactly. He and I… we got into a fight."

"Worse than usual, I suppose," Dorian says. "Things haven't exactly been peaceful between you two for a while now."

Leas nods, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders as if ashamed. "Yes," he says. "But this time… this time was horrible. I knew it wouldn't be good, but… Creators, it was a thousand times worse than I ever dreamed." He curls up, then, hugging his legs and resting his head on his knees, and Dorian tentatively reaches out to stroke his hair. He is perhaps too tense for his gesture to offer the needed comfort, but Leas seems to lean into his touch, nevertheless.

"What was it about?"

A momentary pause. "It started with… well. I thought to tell him about you. Or rather, _us_. He couldn't stay in the dark forever…"

"_Kaffas,_" Dorian mutters, groaning more loudly this time, and he withdraws his hand to run it over his face. He'd been afraid of _precisely_ this, afraid that Leas' exceptionally haughty and virulently anti-human brother, so arrogant that Leas' nickname for him is _Solas_ and possessed of one of the worst tempers and most abrasive manners Dorian has ever seen, would react in much the same way as any southern human would to this. He'd _tried_ to warn Leas, but Leas had brushed him off, and Dorian had only given in because of course, Leas knew his own brother much better than he did. But now, here they are, in the aftermath of a fight provoked by this thing between them. Much as he suspected.

"Dorian, don't," Leas says, grabbing his wrist. "I can see you overthinking."

"Is it overthinking when you telling your _twin_ about us got you into such a dreadful fight that you're openly crying for the first time since I've known you?" Dorian demands. "You can't honestly—"

Leas shakes his head. "You don't even know what happened yet," he says. "Iselen did have some nasty things to say about you, but it's _not_ that. If you'll pardon me for not defending your honour…" Dorian raises an eyebrow, and Leas lets out the weakest chuckle he's surely ever heard. "Please, let me finish." Slowly, Dorian nods, and Leas takes a deep breath.

"I tried to be gentle about it," he says. "I didn't drop it in his lap. I was careful. But once we got started… well, Iselen likes to add one and one and get eleven. You know that. He was outraged, asked what I was thinking, accused me of selling out—basically said everything you've probably ever imagined the southern humans saying. Just from a Dalish perspective, you know?" Dorian grimaces and looks away. He can even hear the words in his head, the bile and the accusations; they hardly need to be elaborated on.

_So, he's finally been subjected to it,_ he thinks resignedly. _Well, he can't honestly believe that this is worth it after such a display. If this costs him such goodwill with his _twin_…_

"Dorian," Leas says, and Dorian looks back at him, but he can't quite shake the fear that he's been carrying around with him from day one of this relationship, or should he say, the expectation, that Leas will get rid of him when this becomes inconvenient. But he says nothing, still.

Leas continues, "I tried to defend myself, but you know Iselen. He's stubborner than I am. It got out of hand pretty quickly. Eventually, we got to the _real_ reason he's upset. It's not because I like men. It's not even because of you. It's—"

"Not because of me?" Dorian breaks in, unable to stop himself. "The _big bad Tevinter magister?_ After all of his rants about Tevinter evil, you expect me to believe it's not about me?" Self-centred, he knows, but what else can it logically be about?

"All right, it's _partly_ about you. But not as much as you'd think. Iselen… he's not exactly making a grand moral stand, opposing this. If you were an elf, he'd be fine with it, mostly. You… it's not because you're a Tevinter noble, it's because you're _human_. As much as he might pretend otherwise, that's it. Iselen's got his head—and a _stick_—crammed so far up his own arse that he can't see daylight, and he's swallowing the stick." Despite himself, Dorian chuckles, and a brief smile flickers also across Leas' face. "More importantly, it's no longer about what humans have done, but what they are. They're human, so they're evil. End of story."

"I think I've seen more complicated thinking in a five-year-old," Dorian mutters in response, and Leas laughs weakly.

"I know," he agrees. "People call _me_ naïve, but the truth is, Iselen has even less life experience than I do, and he cleaves to Dalish orthodoxy like a barnacle. But he's become so self-righteous about it that it's no longer about human crimes or elven oppression, but elven—_Dalish_—superiority and human inferiority. He thinks I'm sullying myself. He doesn't know the half of it."

Dorian raises his eyebrow again. "And what does _that_ mean?"

"It means I didn't tell him you've fucked me and I've sucked you off _on my knees_," Leas says, bluntly, and Dorian almost chokes. "His head would explode if I did. But that's not the point. The point is, he's opposed to you because you're human. But the _real_ thing he got so pissed off about, that we fought about, was what this represents in terms of how I've been behaving."

"Behaviour? I'm not sure how he can criticise that when it's been close to _saintly_ throughout this entire wretched ordeal," Dorian says, sticking his nose in the air a little, mildly concerned to find himself _affronted_ on Leas' behalf. Leas seems to notice it too, and he offers him a warm smile through his tearfulness.

"Thank you. But it hasn't been from a Dalish perspective. I mean, look at me. I spend half my time here at Skyhold wrangling with priestesses and nobles, trying to tell them that there's another way for our peoples, that Orlais and the Chantry have done _terrible_ things to mine. That I want them to do better, that I _believe_ they can do better and deserve a second chance. I share my culture with those who wish it, and I take part in human culture too. I go to the chantry, I accept the priestesses' blessings, I let them call me the Herald of Andraste because the idea that the humans trust an elf to fix this mess is more important than any historically tone-deaf title. I'm advocating for my people the best I can, but to someone like Iselen, who thinks there's no peace to be made, who will have no part of a religion that was forced on us—well. I'm not saying he's wrong. Actually, most of what he has to say is pretty valid, no matter how much of an arse he's being. But… he doesn't think I'm advocating for us in the _right_ way. He thinks I'm becoming more… human, that I'm sleeping with the enemy _in more ways than one_. It's anathema to him. We've been fighting about it for months, but today, it… finally blew up."

Dorian bristles. He recalls well enough the debates Leas has had with the nobles and the priestesses, his stringent and unceasing attempts to overcome history by talking to and making friends of people, by winning hearts and minds, by showing his enemies another way. A peaceful way—a naïve way, perhaps. If this were Tevinter, he'd be eaten alive for such gentleness. But Iselen… Dorian tries to remember seeing him do anything other than turning his nose up at everything, and he comes up with nothing. "Yes, the man whose only contribution to his people is to look down his nose at everything around him certainly has every right to criticise the one who's actually putting in the work to make things better! Even if he's _allegedly_ going about it the wrong way. Marvellous, really."

"You know how it is with the self-righteous," Leas says. "They're hypocrites in equal measure. In any case, Iselen believes only the elves are worth saving, and that they can't be saved while the humans and your empires remain. If it were up to him, I think he'd let the Breach consume all the non-elves and build a new empire for us on what remains. So, of course, he's not going to do anything to help _now_." He shakes his head.

After a moment, he continues. "Anyway. We went in circles for a while, but finally, his temper snapped and he…" Leas' breath catches, and his lip quivers again as he looks away. "He called me a _flat-ear_."

Dorian furrows his brow and looks more closely at Leas. "Flat-ear? Isn't that the Dalish word for city elves?"

"Generally, yes," Leas says. His eyes are wet again, his words halting; Dorian reaches out, puts a hand on his shoulder, and trails it down his arm, for lack of anything else to do. "But technically, it refers to any elf who's given up their culture and assimilated with the humans—who is, allegedly, no longer truly elven. My clanmates toss it around pretty freely when it comes to the city elves, even though it's a slur, even though the Hero of Ferelden was a city elf, and even though they _know_ I lived among them for a time. But… hypocritically… when it comes from one Dalish to another Dalish, it's… like setting off an explosive."

A strange double standard if ever there was one, and Dorian can't quite puzzle out the reason for it. He frowns; Leas catches it even though his eyes are getting wetter and another tear is escaping. "Think about it. We're the _Dalish_: last of the Elvhenan, keepers of the lost lore, who shall never again submit, et cetera, et cetera. Our entire cultural identity is built around being 'true' elves and resisting the humans. So for one Dalish elf to say to another Dalish elf that they're _no longer truly an elf_, that they've given up their entire identity… it's an _incredibly_ grave insult. Short of 'traitor' and comparisons with Fen'Harel, it may be the worst insult we have. Just…" He swallows, lets out a sob; his whole body seems to be shrivelling up and compressing itself into a smaller and smaller space. "Just think of whatever the worst insult in Tevinter is. The sort of thing you wouldn't say without a _damned_ good reason, that starts _fights_ and grudges and you would never dream another person would stoop to saying. It's like _that_."

Dorian can think of such an insult, and he grimaces for a moment at the mere thought of it. Then he puts the pieces together, and he stares at Leas, eyes bulging. "And your _own brother_ called you that? Are you sure he meant it?"

"Yes," Leas says, and he ducks his head, cheeks reddening. "He did. We weren't alone—Halevuna and Syghimye were with us, and when they called him on it, I believe his exact words were, 'If the shoe fits…'" He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Now, I'm not a living stereotype like he is, and I'm aware my people are no better or worse than anyone else, but… I'm still _Dalish_. I'm still proud to be Dalish. I still keep to our culture and our gods while believing in the Maker—you've heard me praying to them, haven't you? You've seen me giving them offerings, and I had a whole shrine to them set up in one of our empty guest rooms, yes?"

Dorian nods. "Unquestionably. In fact, I think I've heard your prayers often enough that I'm fairly sure I could _name_ all your gods now," he says, as if that's some great achievement. Still, it proves Leas' point.

"Exactly. But Iselen would call me—he would deny me my identity—because I'm not doing this the right way, because—" He breaks off, shoulders shaking, but Dorian is so occupied with his mounting anger that this time, he doesn't even try to comfort him. Instead, he stands up.

"How dare he? What _right_ does he have?" he snaps. "What makes _him_ the arbiter of what is properly elven behaviour and what is not?"

Leas can't meet his eyes, and when he speaks, he mumbles the words. "He's just being self-righteous again. I think he's trying to look out for me, trying to steer me onto what he thinks is a better path—"

Dorian goes rigid. "_Look out for you?_" he hisses. "Do what he thinks is best for you?" For half a moment, an image of his father swirls in front of his eyes, and Dorian thinks he could go find Iselen right now and break his neck, no trouble. Oh, it's no blood magic ritual, but he knows what Leas is feeling all too well. "If he _were_, he wouldn't be fighting you on every point! He wouldn't hurl insults at you because he doesn't like what you're doing!"

"He loves me, Dorian," Leas says. "He won't show it around humans, but he _does_ love me. He came all the way out here, left the clan for the first time in his life, to look out for Adhlean and me. I know he hasn't been as good at showing it lately, but—"

The rage lances through him like a white-hot knife fresh off the forge, and Dorian cuts him off by kneeling down and grabbing Leas' chin. His fingers tremble. "That gives him no right to treat you this way," he says, and he tries to keep his voice controlled. "Oh, I'm _sure_ he loves you. I'm positive he does! But if he had any regard for you, he wouldn't treat you like this! He wouldn't call your entire identity into question just because he disagrees with you! I thought you knew that—_why_ are you defending him?!"'

Leas ducks his head even further, and Dorian's mouth twists into something like a snarl at the sight of this man, who's faced down hordes of demons and Venatori and fallen through time and strode forth to face down one of the Magisters Sidereal to buy the villagers of Haven time to escape, so broken down by one word. He's seen more than Dorian can conceive of—spent eight weeks running for his life from the darkspawn during the Blight, saw countless villages get burned to the ground and slaughtered, was under constant assault in his sleep because of his powers as a _somniari_ awakening, nearly got turned into a werewolf, was thrown into a cage and almost sold into slavery, fought in the Battle of Denerim at the tender age of fifteen, and that was a decade ago.

Now he spends his days wandering the south, trying to keep the world from being ripped in half, and when he comes back to Skyhold, he has to deal with people who'll discard him and forget him as soon as it's convenient because he's an elf, who care nothing for his people, who hold them to be sinful and lesser by nature. Yet he always manages to handle them with a smile, polite explanations, the occasional joke, and truly remarkable patience, and he never ceases promoting the idea that they can learn to live together. He has strength like a mountain, is as stubborn and unyielding as the stars he loves so much, radiates joy and optimism and loves the world they live in with the fullness of his heart, despite everything—but now he's falling to pieces, all because of one word. _No. Not one word. One word from his _brother_. A betrayal as much as anything._

"Because I can't help thinking… what if he's right, Dorian?"

Dorian stops in his tracks and stares at him. "I'm sorry, _what?_"

Leas wipes at his eyes again and looks up at him for a moment. "Not about you, or about us. Never about that. But maybe he's right about all the rest. Maybe I am wrong…"

Another pause, then Dorian shakes his head impatiently. "_Kaffas_, speak some sense. What are you talking about?"

Leas groans faintly, gets up, walks past Dorian, and begins to pace in the open space just before the balcony. His steps are agitated, and he runs his hands through his carefully styled hair. "He wouldn't call me a flat-ear without having a reason for it, a good reason. Perhaps I _am_ betraying our people, going about this entirely the wrong way. He could be onto something, I don't know, maybe—"

"I thought we just established he's a self-righteous hypocrite whose plan to 'help' the elves involves waiting centuries or millennia for the human kingdoms to die? A shoddy plan if ever there was one, a thousand times worse than what you're doing—"

"But I could be wrong!" Leas cries, ceasing his pacing for a moment to stare wildly at Dorian. He all but tears at his hair as he does. "Iselen is an arse and a hypocrite and a thousand other things, but that doesn't keep him from being _right!_ And if he's levelling such a damning accusation at me, perhaps he is! What if I _am_ betraying them?"

Dorian steps closer to him, shaking his head. "Leas—"

Leas continues to pace, now talking to himself as much as he is to Dorian. "What if I'm wrong? What if there truly is no peace to be made? I mean, it's not like I've made much progress in all these months. Half the time, I'm shouting into the Void, wrangling with, trying to befriend people who don't want to hear me and don't want another way. What if I'm a traitor for even considering this? I want it all to _end_, the same as any other Dalish: the slavery, the subjugation, the hatred, everything—I want it _gone!_ But what if there's no peace to be made, if I'm foolish for trying? Am I wrong, for wanting peace with those who destroyed us? Am I wrong, for wanting to see Tevinter and Orlais and the Chantry reborn and remade, rather than burnt to the ground? Should I ignore those who take succour in the Chantry, the innocents of Tevinter and Orlais, because of the elven blood on their nations' hands? Am I wrong for wanting us to be able to coexist? What if we _can't_ coexist?! Am I wrong for trying? Have I betrayed my people for a _delusion_, a foolish dream? Are my efforts going to make it worse for us? What if I fail—will they suffer for my failure, victims of human retribution? Will I have given up my identity for nothing? How can I even succeed when the humans won't give way until the elves give way and the elves won't give way until the humans give way?!" He pauses for half a moment, breathing heavily, tears streaming freely down his face, hair a tangled mess, while Dorian stares, stunned into silence. "Nothing terrifies me so much as the thought that we cannot live together, in _peace_, but what if I'm _wrong?!_ What if the thing I want the most in the world can never be? Am I wrong, is Iselen onto something no matter how much of an arse he is, am I—"

"Leas. _Leas!_" Unfrozen now, Dorian steps over to Leas and grabs his wrists. "Look at me, _please_."

But Leas only tears himself away and keeps pacing. He gasps for breath now, and his extremities are shaking, and fresh tears flood down his now deathly pale face. "I'm wrong, aren't I?" he chokes out. He follows it up with snatches of elven. "Oh, Creators and the Maker, I'm wrong, aren't I? _Mythal'enaste_, should I even be swearing by the Maker?! Should I believe in Him and Andrastianism when the Chantry forced it on us? Does that make me a traitor, a flat-ear? But I'm wrong anyway, aren't I? _Ame del, ame del, garahnen ea del, Tualanen ema lanaste,_ please, someone tell me I'm doing the right thing—!" He buries his face in his hands, and Dorian finally takes the chance to reach him and pull him into his chest even though he too is shaking. Though he seems off in a world of his own now, Leas apparently recognises the change, and he lets his head rest in Dorian's shirt, still gasping and choking, trembling as though he were out naked in a blizzard.

Dorian keeps silent. For once, he hasn't the words—all his flippancy will not help now. Instead, he holds Leas as close as Leas will allow, and he conjures a simple warming spell in his hands and presses them to Leas' body. He feels when the warmth begins to spread through Leas, and gradually, his quaking becomes less violent and then ceases. At this point, the man starts crying unashamedly.

"Am I doing the right thing?" he whimpers into Dorian's chest. "Am I, Dorian?"

Dorian exhales. Maker, how he wishes he could tell him that he is, but… "I can't be the one to answer that, Leas. It's not my place," he says, as tactfully as he can put it, and Leas lets out another choked sob. "All I can say is… you should do what you think is the right thing to do, not what anyone else thinks."

"But I could be _wrong_," Leas protests. "That's what this is about! Iselen wouldn't call me _that_ without reason! I could be wrong!"

"The same way my father wouldn't try to do what he almost did to me without _reason_?" Dorian suggests acidly, and Leas _finally_ stops and stares at him, brilliant blue eyes frenzied and panicked and red-rimmed. He'll be loath to admit it, but he remembers _that_ feeling all too well. Carefully, he lifts a hand to stroke Leas' cheek.

"If we all did what other people thought was right," he says, keeping his voice more controlled now, "I'd be married to Livia, screaming on the inside, and just the same as those cretinous Venatori. If _you_ acted the way Iselen wanted you to, you'd be bonded to some Dalish girl, equally miserable, and every bit as insufferable as he is, and you'd have made no friends for the elves. And he has no _right_ to insult you and send you into a _panic attack_ and make you question your whole worldview simply because he doesn't approve. Do you hear me?"

Leas stares at him for a long moment, and Dorian begins to fear that his words will not get through, but then something changes in his expression. "You would understand, wouldn't you," he murmurs thickly. "Though you are a high-born Tevinter and I'd have been a slave had I been born there… yes, you'd understand. You know what it's like to want to change things and have no support, to feel like you're shouting into a void, yes?"

"To say the least," Dorian admits. "Changing Tevinter… even _rocks_ would move faster."

"You _understand_," Leas says. "You see the position I'm in. I don't want to burn the world down, not even for all the elven lore and the return of Arlathan. What does that city mean to me? It's a dead husk of a thousand years ago. No, I love this world." His eyes go wide—no longer frenzied, but full of hope and something else, something ineffable, a thing that makes Dorian's heart leap into his throat. Those bloody blue eyes with that look, he could _drown_ in them…

"There's goodness in it," he continues, "so much goodness. The people fighting here, my clanmates, you, so many more—and there are wonders beyond counting. I would trade them for nothing. And so long as there's a modicum of goodness left, then this world is worth saving. So long as there's a kind human, a human whose mind can be changed—an innocent Tevinter, an innocent Orlesian, a worthy Chantry priestess, a chantry that provides charity and mercy and forgiveness—then it's all worth saving. So long as elves and humans can get on as they are doing right _now_ in this very room, then it's worth fighting for, that we don't have to hate each other. I just… I wish…"

"That it was easier," Dorian murmurs. He almost chokes on the words, and his heart is doing strange little convulsions in his chest. Such idealism ought not to exist, not in this world, and Leas shouldn't possess it after the life he's led. Yet he does, and he clings to it, believes in it with the fullness of his heart. It _radiates_ out of him like starlight, and every time he sees it, Dorian can't help but worry that something's going to come along to break it for good. And every time he sees it, he experiences a glow inside him that seems remarkably like something approaching—

"Yes," Leas says, interrupting the line of thought, and he nestles back into Dorian's chest, sniffling. "I wrangle with the priestesses and nobles because I have to, and I even _like_ doing it. Like going toe-to-toe with people who see me as little better than an animal. Well, I never claimed to be fully sane. But the lack of progress… at times… I know this won't be overturned for a long time, but…"

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"You understand," Leas says again. "See, this is why I _like_ talking to you, Dorian. We don't always agree, but you won't spurn me and insult me when we disagree. And you _understand_ what it's like to want to change things, to make them better, to want peace when others only wish for more hatred and to perpetuate the cycle. You even understand what it's like to be a pariah, and to want something _more_ but have no chance of receiving it because…" A pause, then he sighs. "You understand me. Better than my own twin does, it seems. Oh, isn't it _ironic_?" Words he's spoken before about their relationship, always in jest, but now they are laced with the bitterest irony.

Dorian runs a hand through Leas' hair, gently, trying to restore some measure of order to it. "Iselen does not understand because, like so many others, he does not _wish_ to understand," he says.

"I know, and that's the _problem_," Leas groans, tears trickling from his eyes again. "So many people on _both_ sides who don't wish to understand. Now here I am. Not human enough for the humans, and not elven enough for the elves if Iselen's reaction is anything to go by! All because I want us to be able to live together! And because they won't understand, they'll treat me like the scum off their shoe though I am trying to make things better, for _everyone!_ And Iselen…"

"I can't imagine it was always like this," Dorian says, and he pulls back somewhat to better look Leas in the eye, though Leas tightens his grip on him as he does. "You must have been close before."

Leas nods slowly. "As boys, yeah. We did everything together. Our _vallaslin_ represent Dirthamen and Falon'Din, the twins of the pantheon. There was a time when we could tell each other everything, but… that time's long gone, and it's not just because of who Iselen is." He exhales, then pulls his hand away and creates a small ball of light within it. He stares at it, thoughtful. "When my magic showed itself, well, that was something he could never fully understand, no matter how much I explained it to him, and when I became First, I was isolated from him, at least to some extent. Still, we managed—we were only children, after all. But then I came back from the Blight, and he had got used to not having me around, and…"

"Things were never entirely the same?"

Leas shakes his head. "No. I had trouble telling even him what had happened, and he could not truly understand what little I _could_ tell him, nor my abilities as a _somniari_. Then Adhlean showed up, and we sort of raised him together, with _Mamae i Babae_ of course, but that was still even less time I got to spend with him. Somewhere, we just… grew onto different paths. I'm not sure we've ever fully adjusted."

Dorian strokes his cheek again. "That happens, sometimes," he says soothingly. "Things change, and people simply…"

"Grow apart. I know. But it wasn't supposed to happen with _us_, and it wasn't supposed to get so bad that now we're constantly fighting. He was always meant to have my back, never to call me a bloody _flat-ear_." Leas buries his face in his hands again. "Creators, how could we have become so different? Why can we no longer understand each other? Why this barrier between us? What… what did we do _wrong_?"

Dorian holds him close. "If I knew the answer to _that_ one…"

"Heh. He wouldn't listen to you. He'd call it _shemlen_ bullshit," Leas says, chuckling weakly, and Dorian manages one of his own, more genuine.

"In all seriousness," Dorian adds after a moment, "I don't claim to know anything about dealing with siblings, much less errant twins. But this can't continue, can it? Quite apart from the fact that he's undermining your authority, causing you _significant emotional distress_ that the big bad _Tevinter_ has to help clean up, and is a diplomatic incident waiting to happen if he so much as _steps_ into the main hall, it can't be doing Adhlean any good to see you and him fighting like this. Did he happen to hear any of that?"

Leas grimaces. "He was in his room, but I'm sure some of Iselen's shouting got through the wall. Not that I checked; I fled once the word 'flat-ear' came up," he says. "But you're right. He's already stressed enough about me being out in the field half the time and about being constantly surrounded by _shemlen_. He really doesn't need this. But Iselen… Iselen will claim he's doing the right thing by trying to change my mind. And how can I complain? It's what I'm trying to do with the humans. But—"

"You're not trying to change anyone's minds by insulting them and sending them into panic attacks," Dorian reminds him sharply, and Leas nods.

"I know. I understand his motivations, even if his methods are… questionable. But because he thinks he's doing the right thing, he won't stop even for Adhlean. Actually, he's trying to bring Adhlean around to _his_ way of thinking, and I'm trying to bring him around to mine." He sighs and runs his hands over his face while Dorian finally steps away from him, trusting that Leas is sufficiently calm by now. "_'Ma'telsahngar'hallain_. He doesn't need to be caught in the middle like this…"

Now it's Dorian's turn to grimace. "Take it from me, that's a _ghastly_ position for a child to be in," he says. "The way Mother and Father carried on some days…"

"Did anything ever stop them?"

"In public? Having to appear dignified and civil. In private? Only my grandfather could do that, and that was before he died. Given that I was _four_, I don't exactly remember what…" He trails off, then, hitting on an idea. Then he looks back at Leas.

"Wait. What about your parents? Your Keeper? Does Iselen respect _their_ authority?"

Leas' eyes light up, finally; no doubt he also sees where Dorian is going with this. "Yes. Yes, he does. That's it! I'll send them a letter. I can't bring them here because of the situation in Wycome, but I can write to them. _Mamae i Babae_ can be… _quite_ forceful when they need to be, and Iselen respects Deshanna enough that she doesn't need to be at all. If they agree with me that he needs to get his act together, then he'll shut up. He'll be pissy about it, and he might not apologise, but he'll shut up."

Miracle of miracles. Dorian shakes his head. "Perhaps ask them to get him to shut up around the rest of us while you're at it," he says. "You know it's serious when Sera and I agree with Vivienne and I agree with _Blackwall_ that he's intolerable."

"I know, and I apologise—again—on his behalf for what he has said to you," Leas says. "I'll… mention it, but I'm not sure if I can go that far. He's too proud to keep quiet around humans, you see, even when he should. But this is a start." He smiles at Dorian, genuinely this time, and wipes the wetness from his face, though his cheeks remain pallid and his hair a mess. "_'Ma serannas._ You really helped me out here, Dorian."

As he does so, another thought blooms into Dorian's mind—a reminder of what started the twins' fight. He looks away. "You're welcome," he says, stiff.

Leas chuckles. "Huh. You're not going to upbraid me for the unseemly display of emotions? Very strange!"

For a moment, Dorian's mouth twists into a smirk, but it vanishes just as quickly. "Suffice it to say, I've been in your position before, and I handled it no better. Perhaps even worse, because I didn't have…" Here, he hesitates. "Because I didn't have someone like me to help out. In any event, I'm in no position to criticise, and unlike your brother, I _don't_ kick people when they're down. Much. Not people I care about, anyway."

He looks back to see Leas frowning again, and he exhales. _Fasta vass,_ of course, the man would notice. "Fair enough, but that's a… very understated description of yourself, Dorian," Leas says. "I was expecting something to do with your charisma and your handsomeness." He steps closer again and runs his hand up Dorian's arm, then his neck, his jaw, his cheek, and into his hair. The gesture is slow, exploratory, but Dorian fancies he's far too emotionally drained to want to fall into bed right now. "Not that I need reminding when you're right here, but…"

Again, Dorian sighs. Damn the man and his perceptiveness. "And once again, you've rooted me out," he groans. "But I remembered what you said about what started all this. You tried to tell Iselen about _us,_ and he reacted badly. If predictably."

A momentary pause, then Leas' face falls again, and he grimaces. "_Oh_," he says. "You're worried about how _this_ is affecting my relationship with him."

"Bluntly, yes," Dorian says. He shakes his head, wishing he knew how to make Leas understand. "Sacrificing your reputation is one thing. But your relationships with your family? Never mind Iselen, how do you suppose Adhlean will react? Your clan?" Admittedly, it's a bit late to be worrying about this when he agreed to a relationship in the beginning despite this thought having been at the back of his mind since day one. Even so, Dorian now realises, part of him had foolishly _hoped_ it would not come to that, and now that it has… surely they must address it.

Leas runs his hands over his face and through his hair. "Adhlean never left the clan until a few months ago," he says. "All he knows of humans is what they did to us, and Halevuna and Iselen aren't keen to have him learn anything else. I've been trying to teach him, but I have little enough time to spend with him as it is, and he is… anxious by nature. But he's ten years old, Dorian. He's a _boy_. There is still time to change his mind. As for the clan, I have no reputation with them to begin with—they never liked me. There are problems, but I'll deal with them later, once the situation in Wycome has settled down."

Dorian shakes his head, unsatisfied. "You're supposed to be their First," he says. "You're supposed to _lead_ them one day. How will they feel about their leader being involved with a big bad Tevinter?"

"They'll hate it," Leas says, far too airily for Dorian's tastes. "But Deshanna isn't even fifty yet. If all goes well, she'll be around for many years to come. That's time enough for things to change. In either direction."

Still not satisfactory, but Dorian can tell from the tone of Leas' voice that he will not argue on this point. "And Iselen?"

"Will just have to deal with it. You said it yourself: if I did what he wanted me to, I'd be miserable and insufferable. He may be my twin, but I won't give this up to please him."

It's Dorian's turn to run a hand over his face. "I just don't want this costing you your relationships with them," he says. "I don't want you to be treated like even more of a pariah than you already are, and I don't want you alienated from your immediate family, even Iselen." Not for him. This can't be worth—he can't be worth—such a high cost. Family is everything to the Dalish, or that is what Dorian understands, and Leas is still very Dalish. How can he want to take such a terrible risk for him? "Don't you see—"

"I _do_ see, Dorian," Leas says. "But Iselen is nothing if not loyal, no matter how much of an arse he's being right now. He thinks I'm being an idiot, and he fights me on every point, and today he… hurt me quite badly." His voice catches for a moment, then he shakes his head. "But he'll _never_ turn on me. This I know for certain. He's as stubborn as I am, and even if he thinks I'm a flat-ear, he'll always stand by me."

"I wish I could believe that," Dorian says quietly. Again, he can't help but think of his father—_he'd_ never suspected the man would even consider doing what he almost ended up doing.

"I'll put it this way. He's said more than once throughout the years that he wishes he'd been with me during the Blight. That we'd been together during those first eight weeks, that he'd come to Clan Vaharis and the alienage with me, that he'd been able to keep me from being thrown in the cage or even been thrown in the cage with me. That was… the Blight was _hell_, and Iselen wishes he was _with_ me during it! Of course, I'm glad he wasn't, it was a horror, but that says more about his loyalty than anything else, I think." His voice grows firmer and firmer as he speaks, and slowly, Dorian nods.

"Point taken," he says.

Leas smirks briefly. "Besides, you knew what you were getting into when you first came up here," he reminds him. "You _could have_ said no when I offered something more. And you've been fretting about my reputation since day one, so I'll assume you hadn't forgotten. You could have said no then, on those grounds alone, but you didn't, and you _still_ haven't. What's stopping you?"

A very long silence. Dorian's stomach goes tight with that strange glowing warmth he doesn't want to put a name to, and he looks away, face flushing about as red as Leas' hair. "I don't know if I can answer that yet," he says. It's the most tactful response he can manage.

Leas chuckles, steps closer to him again, and strokes his arm and shoulder; Dorian feels his eyes being drawn to him. "But you take the point," he says, teasing. "Reputation hasn't stopped you before, and I don't think it's about to any time soon. Is it a risk? Maybe. But…" Here, Leas' tone grows more serious. "You're well worth that risk, _arasha_. I hope _I'm_ worth the same."

Dorian stares at him, ignoring the elven word. "Who could doubt that?"

"I could say the same about you—and I am—but your eyes always get as big as saucers whenever I do. They're doing so right now." A vague smile, then he strokes Dorian's cheek. "You _do_ know you're worth it, yes?"

Another long silence. "I… thank you," Dorian eventually manages, but he can feel his face burning, and he knows he's not convinced. Maker, how he wants to be, but…

Leas hooks his hands around his neck, then, standing up on his toes and bringing their foreheads together. This gesture is familiar, and Dorian's muscles relax a little in response. "I'll show you," Leas says. "And in any case, I need to repay you for letting me dump all of that on you earlier."

"Listen to yourself," Dorian blurts. "_Now_ this is getting unseemly."

"What, me trying to tell you that you're _worth the risk_? That's unseemly?"

He wants to agree that it's not. Maker's mercy, he does. But Tevinter claws at him, chains him even. Anything between two men… always temporary, and he's still waiting for the other shoe to fall. Never mind that Leas seems to fit all the cracks in him, the empty spaces; never mind the glow that now fascinates and draws Dorian to it rather than stupefying him. Any day now, this will end, and Dorian will regret the glowing warmth in him that outshines everything else he's ever felt. "I've just told you. Don't you know—"

"The Dalish elf who could never have anything more because he liked men and his clan demanded that he bond with a woman and have more children, whose choice of easy lays meant to stave off the _blue balls_ was limited to those who had similar inclinations and limited further still because most of those men were terrified of him or hated him and wanted nothing to do with him, and who had no chance with those few who remained for something secret but _more_ because they bowed to tradition? Indeed. How could I know?" He says it all so lightly, but Dorian grimaces regardless.

"I apologise. I only meant—"

Leas fists a hand in his hair, suddenly fierce. "I'll say it again: you're bloody well worth it. And anyone who says otherwise can get _stuffed_. Iselen included."

Dorian shakes his head. "You are _relentless_," he mutters, and though he knows it's not what Leas intended, that aching chasm in him only seems to yawn a little wider. Leas is more thoroughly convinced of his worth than anyone. So why can't _he_ feel it, if only for a moment?

"And _you_ are talking too much," Leas says, and he gets up on his toes again and yanks Dorian forward before Dorian can get out so much as another syllable.

The angle is bad, and their teeth and noses knock, and there's so much _fire_ that it makes him uncomfortable, but he can't pull away, either—Leas is a magnet, and that _glow_ around him is addictive even as Dorian knows he doesn't deserve it, and it comes through here, now. There's so much of everything as they cling to each other like they're lost in a storm, scarcely allowing themselves room to breathe: on his side, a space in him that Leas would fill but Dorian perversely keeps as it is, or tries to, and a sense that this is undeserved and must end soon, to his ruination. On Leas', a feeling of belonging nowhere, of utter rejection, of being not good enough for either humans or elves. It all goes into it, so _much_ of it, and Dorian could almost weep for the one thing there is that joins both sides together.

_Understanding._

But he won't weep, not yet. He's got pride enough to avoid it still. So he kisses Leas back as hard as he dares, and he hopes Leas can hear the words that he can't say—that he barely knows himself—in his actions. He's never hoped for this with other men, but here…

When they finally break away, Leas rests his forehead on Dorian's again, and he licks away the saliva hanging from his lip. Their breath comes heavily, shakily, and Dorian's hand wanders, but he knows the past… however long it's been… has been too much for them to fall into bed together. They let the silence reign for a time, then he says, "You know it'll take more than that."

"I know, _arasha_," Leas says. There's that word again, but he keeps speaking before Dorian can ask. "But I'll keep trying. Just as I'll keep trying for my people. I never knew when to quit."

"Bloody relentless stubborn idealistic _bastard_," Dorian mutters, and Leas laughs and kisses his cheek.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he says, and he pulls away. In the dimming light, his lips are bruised, but Dorian only sees it for a moment before Leas glances out the window and sighs. "I suppose I should get back to it. I've another dignitary to meet, and then more lessons with Adhlean until it's his bedtime. Then more reports…"

Dorian shakes his head. "Do you ever _sleep_?"

Leas shrugs. "When I can. A few hours every night. Not healthy, but I've been chronically sleep-deprived since I was fourteen." He turns to look back at Dorian, his expression distinctly apologetic. "_Ir abelas_, Dorian. I daresay you weren't expecting this when you came up here. Next time will be better, I promise," he says.

Finally, Dorian manages a smile, even though he's feeling the increasing urge to find the most potent drink he can and drown himself in it. "Don't think I'll forget," he says, and then he finally remembers the reason he came here in the first place. "I did leave _something_ for you, however." He nods towards the bed, where the book lies mostly forgotten, and Leas turns, heads over to it, picks it up, and begins to peruse the contents.

Soon, he's giggling, loud and clear and with shoulders hunched as it always is when he means it, and Dorian relaxes a little in relief. "Hah! Orlesian propaganda! _Unintentional_ Orlesian propaganda, at that. Thanks, Dorian. I needed that," he says.

Dorian snorts. "Thank whichever cretin keeps delivering this trash to the 'collection' you call a library," he says, nose in the air. "I'm going to have to start _vetting_ them at this rate. Somebody needs to ensure there's a _modicum_ of quality around here."

Leas grins at him. "Even trash can have educational purposes when compared with something finer," he tells him smoothly. "Besides, I always need something to laugh at. Maybe I should write down Iselen's ravings…" he muses as he puts the book away, and Dorian lets out a shocked laugh and shakes his head. Somehow, he suspects, such a book would outstrip even the tritest of Tevinter propaganda—quite an accomplishment, indeed.

Leas steps away from the bookshelf, then walks up to him and gives him another quick kiss—just like that, no ceremony, but with as much affection as if there had been. Something else he's never known, but Dorian can't find it in himself to protest. "Thanks, _arasha_," he says in a low voice. "I'll see you tomorrow night, then?"

"Count on it," Dorian murmurs, and for once, the thoughts of scandal and reputation barely cross his mind and are gone as soon as they appear.

"Good," Leas says, and he turns away. "It'll be better, I swear. For both of us," he adds as he heads down the stairs, and Dorian knows he's not just talking about tomorrow.

And somehow, he doesn't mind.

* * *

**Translations**

_"Ame del, ame del, garahnen ea del, Tualanen ema lanaste"_: "I'm wrong, I'm wrong, everything is wrong, Creators have mercy."

_"Mythal'enaste"_: "Mythal's blessing."

_"'Ma'telsahngar'hallain"_: "My poor (lit. unfortunate) baby halla."

_"Arasha"_: "My happiness."

All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.


End file.
